Rock & Roll Part 3: not dead yet

Last evening, as the world of popular music set it's sights on Cleveland and the induction ceremony for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, one could almost be forgiven for the nostalgia and the tone of a memorial such an event can cast on the music. It's a grand thing, no doubt, to recognize the achievements of so many original artists, but there lies a danger to view the medium through the rosy haze of days gone by. We say “remember when” and toss around words like “classic” which should never have been associated with a music made of immediacy and rebellion, as we pour the bronze and build the pedestals and reduce our heroes and bad influences to pigeon roosts on a mall. As I say, it’s a great thing to behold and recognize our artists, and very cool for a bruised and bloodied city as ours to have this event, but it begs the question, if Rock & Roll is being stuffed into a museum, is it dead yet?

The answer last night, at a grungy little music club just a few miles east of the hard glass memorial to Rock, is an unequivocal “no”! At the same time the once young and relevant Metallica was receiving their plaque of gratitude, four ass kicking chicks were tearing it up on the tiny stage like the music had never died; indeed, like it was invented all over again as it has been for each generation.

HotChaCha is a band born of the city which fancies itself the Rock and Roll Capital, yet often forgets why that still matters. Jovana, the unforgettable singer with the dark eyes and sardonic smile, commands the stage and sings for the crowd, not her shoes, while the rest of the band propels her forward to the edge of the stage and into the audience. The music still matters to them, and it’s a joy to watch, like it’s being invented right before your eyes. And the crowd matters too, twenty somethings who don’t care what you listened to when you were their age, and some of us, even old enough to be their parents, who want to hear something new and vibrant, not just sing along to the oldies. When HotChaCha demands crowd participation, shouting the refrain “Bob” in the song of the same name, the interaction is immediate and genuine, as the musical experience should be. Never mind what their “influences” are, everyone is always influenced by what comes before, but nobody cares in this moment. This band creates a sound all their own with Mandy’s ringing, siren guitar, Heather’s staccato bass, Lisa’s urgent drums, and the throaty, midwest clip of Jovana’s vocals; and that’s all you need to know.

So leave those old records on the shelf, and get your ass out to hear the music now, and remember why you loved it all over again. HotChaCha is on a trajectory which may take them on to bigger and better things--because they are relevant, because they are fun, because they are even earnest in their enthusiasm and drive, and mostly--because they rock.

photo courtesy of John Scully

I dreamt about a new VW

It was a Beetle, but not a "new" Beetle, it was a brand new "old" Beetle. And it was black and the interior had a new, plastic-y smell, and everything worked, like new. The seats were that tough, thick vinyl they used to use, and the carpet was just the simple, dark fuzzy stuff. There was heat from the heaters and it shifted smoothly, in fact, I think it had one of those clutchless gear shift systems VW used to make... I bought the car because I reasoned (in my dream) that I used to own a VW Kharman-Ghia and was familiar with the workings of such a car, that, and it was $1,200.00 new, which I thought was a good price to pay for any new car, especially since I could write a check for it right then and there.

It's not an unusual dream, as I often dream of cars--my old cars or imaginary cars I might have owned. I dream about shifting and sputtering up the hill from Little Italy to Cleveland Heights in my first VW, my leg punching the clutch and losing speed up the steep hill which delineates the "heights" from the flat, lower lying region of Cleveland around the shore of Lake Erie. I dream of my old mechanics, Hans and Tony, who would shake their heads and say to me in their thick German and Hungarian accents, "Stevie--what is the matter with this car now? This car is no good, Stevie!"

Their shop was in South Euclid, the suburb where I grew up, just east of Cleveland Heights. My dad started taking his cars to them since he knew them from the dealership where he bought his first two VWs. He was a quiet, modest man, with modest aspirations. An english major, he became a journalist, working his way up the chain of a major metropolitan newspaper from copy boy, beat reporter, until he found his niche as an entertainment critic, reviewing theater and movies mostly, and editing the entertainment section, until the paper (The Cleveland Press) finally folded in 1982. A child of Italian immigrants from Calabria, and of the depression, he could've been described as what we would call "green" in today's parlance. He gardened a good size plot in our backyard, growing everything from corn and swiss chard to garlic, peas, and even figs from cuttings started by his father. My brothers and I still have fig trees taken from those old trees which trace their way back to Calabria. We had a little orchard, too, with pears, cherries, apples, and plums. He was a DIYer, fixing anything and everything around the house himself, although usually with mixed results; our plumbing fixtures always needed a little extra torque or turn to stop the drip. And every other summer he would put us to work touching up the paint on different sides of the house.

In an era of chrome-clad, finned gas-guzzling wonders from Detroit, my dad bought a VW; inexpensive, modest, and fuel efficient. I was fascinated by the VWs of that time--the shapes were unique--they were the "alternative" car, whether for mild mannered men like dad, or the young boomers on the coasts. I cut out pictures of VWs from magazines and made collages, and I could draw their distinctive shape in one smooth, continuous line. He owned a total of three VW Beetles from the sixties and seventies, with a Fiat thrown in between for good pan-European measure. The entire family (before my sister was born) could fit into the Beetle--Mom and Dad up front, three boys in the back, and me in the cubby hole behind the back seat. We drove to Ontario like that one year, me in the little compartment with my children's books...

My second oldest brother, who became the first of three photographers in the family, shot a roll of film in the early spring of 1968. On it are what have become for me several iconic images which crystalize some important memories. Among them is a photo of my dad, emerging from his VW after work, with fedora and wool overcoat. Another shows me further out in front of the car, taking his place. Still another shows me in a toy pedal car, and another of my mom and dad and me in the middle, looking like we've just returned from church. In the most telling of the photos is me, wearing a cape and sunglasses; the cape represented Superman, whom I was fond of pretending to be, but the interesting detail is the sunglasses. You see, the sunglasses actually represented my disguise as Clark Kent, the alter ego of Superman, the mild mannered reporter for a "major metropolitan newspaper". In becoming Superman, I chose the low keyed yet all important character of Clark. Not unlike my dad, the newspaperman, driving his little car...

March 23rd would have been my Dad's 81st birthday, two days after mine, two early spring babies. He passed away in 1994.

The Golden Diagonal...

I was recently asked what I thought of the "diagonal method"...

I think it's a part of our nature to apply order or symmetry to our world, and by extension our art. That's what we do--we make up shit to make the world make sense. So of course it's no surprise to find such order and symmetry in images we may be drawn to, nor is it surprising to want to impose an order on things which already exist to kind of "validate" them in our minds.

But after a certain point, usually the point being casual observation, that it just gets weird and arbitrary, like numerology. (Don't even get me started on numerology...) For instance, how convenient was it to draw the diagonal up from the lower corners in certain pieces while more examples have the diagonal drawn from the upper corners? What is the rule when it comes to this issue? Or is he simply seeing canals on the surface of Mars?

Don't get me wrong, I see the pattern. Sometimes. We have a collective aesthetic--certain chords and rhythms elicit certain moods in a lot of people because a lot of us have shared and heard examples which reference the same ideas. But there are entire cultures which traditionally do not share, for example, an aesthetic of representational imagery which you and I may take for granted.

There is a particular member of a certain photography forum who has recently become obsessed with "traditional" rules of composition and lighting. Problem is, few of my favorite photographers, who are quite well regarded, would pass his rigorous rules.

So where does that leave us? To paraphrase Duke Ellington, if it looks good, it is good. Of course, as our context grows, and that collective experience plays a larger role, what looks good may very well change right in front of your eyes.

Store Brand Oreos and Cheap Cabernet

So we're watching Anthony Bourdain--he's in Spain and we're salivating. Never watch Anthony Bourdain without something to drink or eat. I go crack a bottle of cheap California Cab and root around for something to eat late on a Monday night; I find an open package of Target brand Oreo type cookies. My girls swear that these are not as good as the "real" ones, but I beg to differ. Maybe it's the wine, maybe it's the exotic food preparations on the television, but these "oreos" are just a bit more chocolaty, just a bit creamier, and even a little less than perfect in how they're shmushed together and a little more crumbly; they are less shortening and more flavor. And the Cabernet loves them. Two modest offerings from the pantry, the right mood, lover at my side, Bourdain's wisecracking New York patois, and they meld into a perfect snack.

Like a lot of memorable eating experiences, my modest cookies and red wine have less to do with any great culinary finesse, and more to do with an attitude that this is this. The good life is here and now, to share and savor with whatever and whomever is near.

Summer Vacated

"may you live in interesting times"--an ancient curse, I believe.
Alas, it's been an interesting summer.

I hope to make new and regular contributions to this spot, including themes of, but not limited to, school, weather, travel, love, music, dining, drinking, smoking, sanity, and picture making.

Stay tuned...

Rock & Roll Comes On A Thursday

(see this entry)
...but this time it's the Bellrays, who kick ass over and over, taking no prisoners with their head rattling, soul stretching rock & roll. Another band which renews your faith in why the music matters, Lisa and the band can make you believe nothing else matters when they are on stage, no mean feat in this age of over saturation and over commercialization in the music business. A time when some would have us believe that the price of your ticket or the size of the stage show should make you feel guilty for being less than impressed, here is the real deal.

Rock & Roll Comes On A Tuesday

...or whenever or wherever you might not expect it. After a half century, or really a whole damn century, of electrified, hip-shaking, brain rattling music from the American gut, and a complete commodification of said rattling, it's heartening to STILL find rock rolling.

Singing, screaming, thrashing and bashing out the rhythm, a melody as direct as a "hey, baby" a continuo that shakes your balls, and skull splitting drums in a room where you can feel, smell, and even taste it--that's rock & roll the way the lord meant it.

And that is what came, unexpectedly, on a Tuesday night in May at The Beachland Tavern, when Pela played on the second night of their tour. Warming up themselves as well as the small crowd of early-in-the-week music lovers, they fairly blew the few away. With insistent riffs and urgent singing, both catchy and pushy, Pela reminds you of why you love the music.

Going on a whim and a blurb, it's the unexpected, sometimes obscure, or otherwise just hard working shows like this which renew my faith in the music.

The Messenger

I was Nancy Theresa, Nunciata, do you know what that is? The annunciation, Nunciata, I’m the messenger, “kill the messenger”, ha ha! But really, I feel like that’s what I am sometimes. I’m just the messenger, Annunciation...


Antonia, do you know that was your great grandmother’s name? Antoinette. She would be so honored to know that you have her name... And Anthony! The greatest saint. There he is--you pray to him when you lose something. He is the saint of lost causes. Antonia. Antoinette. You are lucky to have a sister.


I had a sister, but she was still born. Do you know the irony? Grandma and Grandpa fought about their tenants. They always had tenants, you know. After they moved from the third floor to the second floor then all of their uncles came to stay--both sides, there were always relatives living upstairs. But Grandma and the woman downstairs were pregnant at the same time, but they fought. They argued. And Grandpa would get mad, he was so mean to her. He was terrible and he threw her down. And my sister was born dead. And the downstairs neighbor--this is the irony--she had twins! Grandpa was so terrible, but everyone thought he was a “prince”. They thought he was such a wonderful person, but he was so terrible to Grandma. And I would have had a sister, and I regret that to this day. Three brothers, but no sister. And they gave me her name--Nunciata. It’s not my name, it’s my sister’s name. It’s not right. It was Peter, then my sister who died, then Mike, then Blaise.

But you evened everything out, later, you know. My Even-Steven. That’s what you are. Ha ha. You are an abstract, you know that? I see that when I see your pictures. Your brother Douglas is a classic. You are an abstract. Roger can make any kind of picture. You are all so talented. My photographer boys. Your dad is very resourceful, girls. You are talented like him.

Uncle Mortimer the Tang

At a very early age (and even now) when I heard voices, sounds, or sound effects, I usually felt compelled to try to imitate or mimic them. As it were, the sound of the Road Runner was particularly memorable and challenging; MEEP-MEEP, followed by that springy sound effect--you know, MEEP-MEEP-pa-TANG....

So young Bean could often be found wandering about, sputtering cartoon voices and sound effects, a Tourette's-like cavalcade of happy sounds... MEEP-MEEP-fffffffffssshhhhhhwooooop-pa-TANG! tang! TANG!.
Well it wasn't long before my brothers picked up on the "tang" suffix, adding it to various words and phrases--such-and-such-the-tang. One such concoction was the regular ice cream truck driver, known, creepily I now think, as "Uncle Marty"; Uncle Marty quickly evolved into Uncle Morty, which wasn't far from Uncle Mortimer. Well, Uncle Mortimer was OK, but he really needed a bit more, after all, we weren't shortening things at that point. So Uncle Mortimer became Uncle Mortimer the Tang.

EPILOGUE: ironically, in spite of all my linguistic twists and silly mimicry, I still couldn't bring myself to say the name of the ice cream treat which came in a paper cone and had a gum ball at the bottom. I remember walking up to Uncle Mortimer the Tang and asking him for that particular item, knowing full well what it was called! I just couldn't say it...




(You can google it if you want. I'm still not going to say it.)

Hail Mary, Full of Face

The unimpeachable bane of the western woman, the god-mother and self sacrificing servant, the unlikely and unbelievable figure of 2,000 years of devotion, is represented in the both perfect and devilish number of 18 panels by Beth Mastroianni in an installation at Brandt Gallery through April 12, 2008.

The Hail Mary, as much a prayer as a mantra, is treated to a personal representation by Ms. Mastroianni in this series portraying family, friends, and even a politician, in each of eighteen phrases of the invocation.

(Closing reception Friday, April 11, 2008)

Love (over Virtue or Fortune)

The struggle of the gods is played out by the earth-bound emperor Nero, his lover Poppea, her spurned fiancé Ottone, and the Empress Ottavia, in one of Monteverdi's final operas. In a haunting production by the Oberlin Conservatory's Opera Theater this past week, the wishful notion of the triumph of love turns startling and brutal.
Brutal in the reality of spurned lovers turning murderous, startling as the virtue of loyalty ending in self destruction. And sad in the joy taken in so much pain.

This dark and twisted comedy premiered in 1642, but it's theme is strikingly contemporary--or so we may think, as the gauzy scrim of nostalgia might suggest (wrongly) that times were ever "better", that art was ever more "uplifting". In reality, Monteverdi, the godfather of opera, plumbed the depths of emotion and human frailties in this masterwork, leaving no heroes and no one unscathed.

Immoral Fate, Hail Mary, etc.

I regret that I've been under the weather and rather busy the past couple of weeks, and as a result have not posted. But I'll have some thoughts on The Coronation of Poppea, and the Hail Mary as well. Soon...

7:41 AM

That's the time it was when he started laying on the doorbell. On a Sunday. Not one ring or two, but a dingdingdingdingdingdingding of continuous jabbing at the switch. And again. And I started from bed--do I get dressed? What? Socks? Who?

dingdingdingdingdingdingding

Henry--we'll call him Henry--is apparently homeless, and frequents the neighborhood because of the church up the street which feeds and ministers to the homeless. Henry will do stuff for money--rake leaves, shovel snow, haul trash, anything you got.

This time Henry had a snow shovel in hand; he "borrows" these tools, like rakes and shovels, from other neighbors to do the job, unless you want to "lend" him a shovel. But it hasn't snowed in two days, and even though I didn't shovel when it did, there wasn't much, and most of it has melted down. But Henry is here, shovel in hand, at 7:41 on a Sunday. The fact is, there's no beer or wine sold on Sundays until after 12 noon, so Henry's got some time to hustle. Henry needs cash.

Henry drinks. He probably does other things as well, but he drinks. He can rake a yard and fill four bags with leaves, powered by a Colt 45 "Tall Boy". He just sets it on the porch, in a bag, and gets to work. Henry hustles.

I don't know how old Henry is; he looks 55, but he's probably 33. Henry's got nothing much, nobody cares where Henry is this morning, at 7:41, on a Sunday. Nobody cares how old he is. Henry's mind is focused on too few things; he doesn't care what time it is. He's long past caring as those around him are long past caring about him. He just needs some cash.

Spaghetti Aglio e' Olio for lunch

The simplest of all pasta traditions, but also very easy to fuck up badly. Here's the lowdown on that simple yet elusive preparation:

Pasta
Olive Oil
Garlic
Red pepper flakes
(that's it!)

You already know how to cook pasta, right? Don't make me tell you to add salt to the water or make sure it's boiling before you drop it in, and if you rinse it I'm gonna break your neck. Anyone heard of Al Dente? No? If you overcook it I'll send Al down to break your neck, too!

Now, get yourself a big ol' pan and some good extra virgin olive oil ("extra virgin", that was me in high school).

Chop up a bunch of garlic (at least a half dozen cloves--don't make me come down there!)
NO, you cannot use garlic powder, paste, or that damn garlic press... Get out your big knife and make a scene!

Put the pan on some heat, put oil in the pan (half a cup, more or less--it's good for you, so shut up and pour!)

Go ahead and throw the garlic in the pan--here's the thing--we're not browning it, we just want to get it translucent and slightly sizzling. As soon as you hear a sizzle, TURN THE DAMN HEAT OFF!! Then, toss in a pinch or three of red pepper flakes. The residual heat will continue to develop the the garlic and pepper flavor. If you brown it, it will go bitter on you.

Drain the pasta when it's ready, and immediately toss in the pan with the oil. Throw it in a bowl and eat it, then continue to eat out of the pan until it's gone.

Serve with slightly chilled leftover red wine from previous night--preferably in a rocks glass or ceramic mug. Chase it with an apple or pear and you have the perfect lunch.

The Super Bowl Miracle

She knew New York would win, she said, it was the feast of St. Blaise', after all. Blaise was her brother who passed away more than twenty years ago, leaving a family of 12, and the oldest boy, also named Blaise, died too young not ten years past. In her mind, you somehow become the saint for whom you're named when you pass, like a giant continuum.

She left the TV on but didn't watch, only listened, as she cleaned out the refrigerator which had more years of filth than you care to know. Three hours it took, she said, cleaning and scrubbing, and in those three hours they won. So she knew...

It wasn't only the refrigerator, though. When I walked into the cramped apartment she grew up in, there were large, black trash bags stacked on the floor, a dozen or more, and I could see the kitchen table-top for the first time in all those years. The thick, gray dust was gone, clothes were hung up, boxes were packed. The dusty, sour smell was finally dissipating...

The patron saint of throat ailments and wild animals turned his attention to an underdog team and a poor old woman trying to reclaim her world. She listened to the plays, but never watched, not until the work was done.

She knew her brother and nephew would watch and wait for her.

I've got a pocket full of pretty green

...I'm going to give it to the man behind the counter
he's gonna give me food and water

I recently heard this song, do you remember it? I heard it on the recent release by Mark Ronson, and my ears pricked up--I knew it but couldn't quite place it. It was a catchy, bouncy rendition evocative of a children's rope skipping rhyme, replete with high, cheery voices. This particular production is what threw me off--it was originally performed by the Jam, and the version as sung by the gruff, nasally Paul Weller, with the spare, percussive, jerky arrangement feels like a different world altogether. The song is a simple, stark assessment of the world of commerce:

And they didn't teach me that in school -
It's something that I learnt on my own -
That power is measured by the pound or the fist -
It's as clear as this oh -

But in the new version by Mark Ronson, the song becomes a nursery rhyme whose origins and meaning are shrouded and sometimes dark, like Ring Around the Rosey, Rock-a-Bye-Baby, or maybe even Pop Goes the Weasel.

Is there safety in the familiarity of a tune? Or was it ever really that dark? Sometimes the incomprehensible chords and strange rhythm of a new song make your ears bristle and wince, or an annoying refrain overshadows a song's deeper meaning. Did you ever notice someone from afar, and think to yourself, "gosh, he looks mean." But when you eventually meet him and get to know him as the good person he inevitably was, you can no longer seem to find that "meanness" in his face you swear you saw in the past?
Is the most beautiful person you know the most beautiful person in the world?

Mapled

For better or worse, I've always been rather willful and contrary--just a quirk of personality born of shyness and (perhaps) benign neglect. This trait manifests itself in a habit of leaving social situations without fanfare or so much as a farewell if I'm not feeling the groove, turned off, or otherwise bored. I would just prefer to slip out unnoticed than burden anyone with any sort of obligation, guilt, or challenge to justify my continued presence. Sometimes it's out of true annoyance or distaste that I leave a social situation, sometimes simple lack of interest, usually something in between. I've left parties, bars, art openings, and concerts over the years--hey, it's my prerogative--the world isn't going to end, is it? Let me save you the energy--I can find the door myself.

A few years ago I attended a concert by a group recommended by bandmates and friends, the band being US Maple (which is not important, as it could have been any number of bands). As the show progressed, I found myself not really connecting with the music; it wasn't bad, it just wasn't speaking to me at that time--to be honest, it struck me as something I'd rather be playing than listening to--if that says anything about my willfulness and contrary nature... Anyway, as my friends closed in on the stage, very much into the performance, I fell back to the edge of the room. Then it struck me (as it does from time to time): I'm not really enjoying myself, maybe I should just leave... And leave I did, tossing my beer in the trash and pushing open the exit, glad to be free of the music and the obligation.

The next day, amid an exchange of emails, my friends realized that I had left, well, earlier than they thought. Talking about it later to Mrs. 'tini, the term "Mapled" was coined; referring to the act of leaving a social situation unannounced, prematurely, and slightly annoyed.

Super-e-bola

Football puts me to sleep, as do most televised sports. I could be bouncing off the wall one moment, turn the TV on and before you know it, the drone of the unending chattering, crowd noise, and loooooong commercial breaks have all come together like a magical sleep-inducing spell. I know it's supposed to be exciting--and I'm sure it is--at least for the guys actually playing, but for me I might as well be watching an ant hill with a soundtrack recording of Niagara Falls.
Like so much, it's aesthetics. I have nothing against football or sports in general, but the association of a certain aesthetic (the look and sound of televised sports) combined with early experiences (lack of interest or understanding) has turned me off to the experience. I think we all have experiences combined with aesthetics which have turned us off or prejudiced us to specific things--certain types of movies, reading in general, various kinds of music--how many times have we heard the words, "I hate ____ music!", referring to a specific style or sound? What was the association which turned off the individual to such a broad range of experience?

Voices in the Night

...like constant, frantic conversation, and nervous shuffling about, and the rattling of furniture and god knows what from another room. That's what the winds sounded like last night, the incredibly high, gusting winds, marking a rise from the 30's to the mid 50's, and then a steep drop to about 13 degrees, all within a few hours. Between the noise and the anxiety of the severe damage which might be caused to the house, it was a fitful night.
Sometimes nature seems to burst at the seems, behaving in ways it's not "supposed" to. It's those moments that make you wonder how we ever made it this far.

"A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints" part II

On a critical level, one could find certain flaws with Dito Montiel's "A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints"; a tighter edit, a more focused expansion on main themes, etc. So let's get that shit right out front so nobody accuses me of being a sycophant.
Now...
"A Guide to Recognizing Your Saints" is a memoir, a riff, a road opus and beat anthem, a time and a place, and an internal wide-eyed joy ride. Every once in a while a book shimmers with sheer enthusiasm and joy, a rare earnestness and love... and this is one of them. Like Michael DeCapite's "Through the Windshield" and with nods to Kerouac, Montiel composes a memoir rich in the real flavor of his hometown neighborhoods and deep affection for his fatally flawed friends, acquaintances, and lovers, right alongside his own flaws, all the while finding the inspiration in these unlikely "saints".